


Cold

by missbeizy



Category: Glee RPF
Genre: Blow Jobs, M/M, RPF
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-16
Updated: 2014-03-16
Packaged: 2018-01-15 23:23:22
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1323118
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/missbeizy/pseuds/missbeizy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fluff and trailer sex set during the 03/14/2014 NYC filming.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold

**Author's Note:**

> The first time that they're given permission to break in the trailer, Chris' whole body shudders with a relief that he tries to mask. This isn't for Will's sake, of course—he's noticed the discomfort rising in Chris all morning, a neat combination of cold, crowds, and performance pressure piling up until the wrinkles under his eyes are deep and the slope of his body is consistently inching inward and downward. He still smiles and laughs and goes where they tell him to go and does what they tell him to do, but there's a certain autopilot aspect to the way that he's moving, and funnily enough it's Darren who says something first.

"Rough flight or did he just not sleep well?" he asks, casually.

They've been chatting on and off all day, so Will takes that in stride and answers, "He's not big on crowds. Or mornings."

Darren laughs, just in time for Chris to circle away from what he had been doing and join them again.

"What's funny?" he asks, stepping in so that his and Will's elbows touch.

"Your face," Darren says.

Chris glares.

Will giggles, then clamps his lips together when Chris turns the force of that glare on him, too. "What? Have some respect for the classics."

"Only in your world would that be considered a classic," Chris says, but he's smiling into the rim of his cup and Will can see the affection in his eyes.

"If anyone is mocking anything right now, I think we might want to turn the camera lens on a certain beard that a certain someone is trying desperately to grow out," Darren says, eyebrows triangular halfway to his hairline.

Chris cackles.

"Look, man," Darren says, clapping Will on the shoulder. "You just had to call. I could have helped. I am like, the fucking master."

"Joaquin is the master," Will says, quite fervently.

Chris cackles, again, only this time it's darker, because they have a running joke that Will has kind of a crush on Joaquin and whenever they argue Chris calls him Mrs. Sedillo and asks him if, in order to keep him, is Chris going to have to grow a mustache?

Darren looks determined to drag Joaquin into this, but he's busy and then suddenly they are calling break, and Darren is swept off into another conversation.

Chris' weight comes just a little bit harder against his side, and Will knows without needing to be told that he wants to get back to his trailer without talk or fuss. So Will does what he's so good at, says something to a PA without breaking physical contact with Chris, and then guides him quietly back to the trailers without letting anyone--fan or crew or friend--aside from said PA, who has been assigned to them, stop them.

"God, I am freezing," is the first thing Chris says when the door closes.

Will knows that it won't stay shut for long—there is never a quiet moment, at least not one that lasts very long, but Chris can sit down, get warm, and shake off the claustrophobic buzz of the crowd.

He jolts when Chris hugs him, dragging a frozen nose tip up the side of his neck. He's cold, too, but for whatever reason not as cold as Chris, and it's a shock. He leans into it, still, one ear bent toward the door, always concerned, always looking to head off privacy invasion at the pass, always so alert when he's with Chris, especially at work, because he knows that it's one of the things Chris needs from him.

He loves playing this part. He loves that it matters. He loves Chris so fucking much.

So when Chris reaches over to flip the flimsy lock on the trailer door, he doesn't say anything. He just lets himself be drawn into a tighter embrace.

Chris kisses below his ear. "I know they're gonna knock in like, two minutes, I just need to--"

Shut it out. Feel contained, in control. Will knows.

He cups Chris' jaw and tilts his face up into a brief kiss. "I know, babe."

"I would've been fine if that freaking kid hadn't kicked the back of my seat the whole flight over," Chris protests against Will's jaw, squeaky and indignant, and Will has to laugh.

"Or the third pass through the metal detector."

"Yeah."

"Or the lack of strawberry jam at the continental breakfast."

"That too."

"Or the fact that New York is apparently fucking Greenland right now."

"You are so smart."

Will grins and kisses him again, the sweet bow of his upper lip and then the tip of his broad nose, between his eyebrows and back down to the dark spots beneath his eyes. "I knew you just kept me around for my big fat...brain."

Chris grins. "You keep telling yourself that." His hands sneak low, fast for a rough grope, and Will twitches into it with a soft, put-on squeal and a flailing wrist.

"Rude," he hisses.

Chris kisses him, hard. There's a beat of hesitation, their combined attention on the door and thin walls and the noise of the crowd outside. There really is no true privacy in a trailer on a set like this, and they only get five to ten minutes at a time, anyway. They've been together long enough for quickies in semi-dangerous places to have lost most appeal—not that they had ever been an option before, considering Chris' lifestyle. But there had been memorable attempts, and several successes, and they all stand out in Will's mind.

He can feel the tension in Chris' body like a wire wanting desperately to snap, and knows that he has all the tools and knowledge that allow him to snip that wire like a professional.

And god, he wants to.

When Chris kisses him with the same enthusiasm a second and a third time he walks them back to the rickety, hard couch at the far end of the trailer and, even though it's freezing and his knees hurt, he eases Chris back against it and kneels on the icy floor between his spread knees.

"Hey, no, come here," Chris says, so Will leans forward, puts his hands on Chris' thighs and lets Chris hold him around his shoulders, lets Chris kiss him with parted lips and then tongue, teeth nipping at his bottom lip, again and again, until they're both not so cold and not so calm.

Chris is breathing heavily and pink all over when Will's hands slide up his legs. Will pulls away with a sharp inhale and thumbs Chris' cock through his pants. His incredibly unforgiving, Kurt Hummel-issue pants. Chris knows what he intends to do the moment that he decides to do it.

"Oh, god, no," he says, grabbing Will's fingers when they go for his fly.

"Why not?"

"Time limit. Thin walls."

"I can be quick, and you can be quiet," Will insists, palming Chris' cock, which is either half-hard or just very eager to find the most open spaces in the crotch of those pants.

"Jesus," Chris hisses.

He has a very short time to decide, and Will is on his knees, and they both know what the threat of discovery and the impetus to rush can do to Chris—the danger and the challenge make his blood sing, to both of their benefits.

Will is so turned on that he can't be logical about it. He just wants Chris' cock in his mouth. More than that, though, he wants Chris to relax, and he wants to walk them both back to set knowing that he's done something to help accomplish that.

"Yeah?" he breathes, bending over Chris' lap and kissing him where he's warm and swelling up.

"Yeah," Chris replies, practically a whisper, and Will groans in between his legs as he hastily undoes the button and zip on his pants. They are actually loose compared to most of the pants Kurt Hummel has worn in the past, and he's grateful for that because he doesn't need to work them down to get Chris out of his underwear, as he has had to do on the last two occasions that he'd found himself kneeling in a trailer on the Paramount lot.

It's no nonsense from the first hungry lick, the flat of his tongue scooping Chris' half-hard cock in between his lips, and it only takes about twenty seconds of sucking for it to get hard enough for him to sit up and bob down without the help of his hand. He's a mouth guy, all the way, likes to leave his hand out of it until the very end, and he knows that Chris loves that, too.

Especially since the beard. The scruff had been sometimes-unpleasant in sensitive areas, but the beard has grown out so that it's soft enough to provide texture and tickle without scratching, and Chris doesn't hesitate to reach down, scrub his fingertips through it as he holds Will's jaw.

He lets his body give in. He sinks into the couch, but his head never falls back and his eyes never close. He likes to watch. Well—with Will, he _loves_ to watch, and Will is fully aware of that.

It's as quiet as it needs to be—Chris' chest rises and falls sharply and he sucks in lungfuls of air every few seconds but beyond that there's nothing, no talk, no encouragement, just Chris' long, pink dick sliding in and out of his mouth and lots of spit on his chin, and the faint, moist, rapid noise of penetration, and a gentle pop the few times that he lets it slide out completely so that he can swallow it warm from the cold air again, just for the joy of feeling Chris' thighs clench under his hands.

He can tell that the contrast is driving Chris nuts—his mouth is leagues hotter than the trailer's temperature, though there's a space heater in here somewhere pumping away, providing just enough noise to help drown out the sound of their activities.

Will loves it, from start to finish, when Chris is practically hyperventilating and holding his head down and edging into his throat, loves having his mouth fucked, loves the almost-gag and the surge of hard flesh in his mouth, against his cheeks, his teeth, his palate. It feels so fucking good, and with Chris it also feels like love in motion, like everything that is so right between them and always has been.

It's never been quite like this with anyone else. Never. And Will is so fucking grateful that he could cry.

He finally gives Chris his hand. He's wet, slick with spit, and then four pumps later the spit is dry and friction takes over and Chris' hips twitch up eagerly.

"Fuck," he whispers, shaking, red to his collar, his hands unsteady in Will's hair. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."

"Yeah, come on," Will whispers, jacking Chris into his mouth. "Come on, honey. Got you. Got you right here, come on."

Chris's throat expands with a sudden huff and he falls back, arching up as his shoulders hit the back of the couch. "Will," he whimpers, and then bites his lip to stifle the noise that chases Will's name.

"I'll catch it, come on, come for me," Will murmurs.

"Shit, fuck," Chris growls, bites the back of his hand to muffle the sobs as he comes in Will's mouth, his pelvis rolling, his body following, writhing off of the couch in undulating waves.

All it takes is two swallows and a tissue and he's doing Chris' pants back up, leaning forward on his knees to kiss him. It's warm and wet and hot, Chris' hands digging through his hair, through his beard, Chris' calves inching around his waist to keep him close.

"Goddamn, that was amazing," he says, flushed but recovering quickly otherwise.

Will grins and thumbs his nose. "Not so cold anymore, huh?"

"Jackass," Chris says.

"Your jackass," Will replies.

He knows it's silly, but he can't help reaching down, bringing Chris' hand up, the one that has the prop ring. It had been weird, the first time he'd seen Chris with it on, but for a long time now it hasn't really mattered at all, because their future isn't a question mark anymore.

Chris shifts it around his finger—he hates jewelry and messes with it constantly—and spares Will that little, sweet, crinkly smile that means _I love you_ when they can't say it, and _forever_ even when they can.

"Thank you," he says, letting Will stroke over the light metal without a sarcastic remark, for once.

And someone knocks on the door.


End file.
